Scream (28 page)

Cheryl crawled into bed and pulled a red, white, and blue patchwork quilt up to her chest. Her great aunt Jennie had made it
and gave it to Cheryl's mother. Her mother then passed it on to
her. It was old, and some of the patchwork was torn in places,
but it was warm and comforting in a sentimental way. She
leaned back against two pillows propped against the headboard
and laid her book on her lap. First things first. She'd promised
her mother she'd call. The digital clock across the room read
eleven o'clock. Should be fine. Mom always was a night owl.
She flipped open her cell phone and punched the buttons with
her thumb.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mom, it's me. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine, honey. Just getting ready for bed. Your father
is already asleep. Everything OK?" Mom sounded tired. She
wasn't handling the late nights as well as she had when she
was younger.

"Yeah, I guess."

Mom paused. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and
quiet. "You don't sound like you're OK. Tough day, huh?"

Tears, unplanned, sprang to Cheryl's eyes, blurring her
vision. A lump swelled in her throat. "Yeah" She couldn't say
any more, or the sobs would burst forth like a geyser.

"Honey. I know it's hard. I know the pain is unbearable. Have
you thought at all about what I talked to you about last time?"

Last time. Last time they talked-last week-Mom had gone on and on about being born again. Apparently, some friends
of theirs took them to their grandson's baptism, and Mom and
Dad had "found Jesus"; that's how they put it. Where Jesus was
or how He got lost, Cheryl had no idea, but they were different
now. Especially Mom. Last week she rambled on about the
peace and happiness she now felt. She'd told Cheryl she could
have it too, if she only trusted Jesus with her life. She said Jesus
would comfort her. Something about giving Him her burden
and casting her cares at His feet. Cheryl knew Mom was referring to Mark and the separation, but she never came right out
and said it. But Jesus comforting her? How could someone who
lived and died two thousand years ago comfort her? She must
have meant His teachings. But they were just words, black ink
on white paper, and Cheryl was tired of words.

"-Cheryl? Honey?"

"Uh, yeah, Mom, I did think about it some. And-look, I
just don't think it's right for me now. It seems like a lot of warm
fuzzy stuff that really doesn't mean a whole lot in the real world,
and I'm not in to warm fuzzies right now. I've had enough of
them for a while." She braced herself for Mom's rebuttal.

"Cheryl. Dear. It's not warm fuzzies at all. It's real. Jesus is
real. He's alive, and He loves you more than you could ever
know. He only wants to have a relationship with you."

The lump in Cheryl's throat dissipated, and now a feeling
of anger or frustration or both had settled in her chest. "If He
wants a relationship with me so bad, why don't we have one? I
mean, He's God, right? Jesus claimed to be God. So if He's God,
why doesn't He initiate the relationship?"

"He did, honey. He became a man and came here to the
earth and died on the cross in our place, your place, so you
could have a relationship with Him. But He can't force you into
it; it needs to be your choice."

"Why? Why does it have to be my choice?" Cheryl was aware
her voice was growing in volume, but she didn't care. None of
this made sense to her. It was religious mumbo jumbo for weakminded fools, and it angered her that both her parents had been
duped into believing it. "Why doesn't God or Jesus or whoever
He is just say, `Hey, you down there. Sorry your husband screwed
your life up, but don't worry, I'll make it all better'?"

Mom sighed static into the phone. "Cheryl, He won't because
love has to be...it has to be freely chosen. He won't force you
to love Him."

The words bit into Cheryl's heart. Love has to be freely
chosen. Or freely rejected. She knew what that was like.

Mom was still going. ..... it isn't love then, is it? Cheryl,
honey, the Bible says-"

"OK, OK. That's enough, Mom. I don't need to hear anymore"
She sighed and calmed herself. "Look, I'm happy for you; I
really am. It sounds like you found something that you're really
excited about and that's great, but you have to understand, it's
just not right for everyone, and it's not right for me. OK?"

There were a few seconds of silence, only Mom's breathing.
"OK, dear. I understand. But won't you at least-"

"Mom, please. I'm tired. I'm going to hang up now. I'll call
you again in a few days."

"OK. I love you, baby. I'm thinking about you... and praying."

"I love you too, Mom." And she did. Mom had always been
her rock. And that's why this change, this born-again thing had
upset Cheryl so much. Mom had changed, become one of those
religious nuts, and there was nothing Cheryl could do about it.
She flipped the phone shut and dropped it next to her on the
bed. Picking up her book, she turned to the bookmarked page
and began reading. Reading always calmed her and prepared
her for sleep.

Twenty minutes later the words on the page began to blur,
and Cheryl struggled to keep her eyes open. She read a little
more, dozed off, lifted her eyelids, and read a few more lines.
After a while, nothing made sense anymore. She'd lost her
place and found it numerous times and struggled to keep the
words together. Finally, she gave in and lowered the book to
her chest.

An hour later the clock blinked to twelve. Midnight. Time
to move. He pushed the brake pedal to the floor, shifted the
car into neutral, and slowly released the brake. The car began
to drift forward. Working the brake to control his speed, he
allowed the car to coast downhill, slow and steady. When he
came to her apartment, he gently depressed the pedal. The
brakes protested with a high-pitched metal-on-metal whine;
the car came to a complete stop. He shifted back into park and
lifted the parking brake. Then he opened the car door, slipped
out, and quietly pushed it closed again.

The sky was clear and deep, splashed with stars like grains of
glistening sand. The almost-full moon hung high and bright, a
single white eye watching with curiosity. With the stealth of a
leopard he stole across an expanse of manicured lawns, keeping
to the shadows, disappearing, becoming part of the landscape.
When he came to her apartment complex he stopped at the
corner and collected his thoughts, rehearsing every move that
would get him into her bedroom, anesthetize her, and remove
her, without so much as disturbing a blade of grass. There had
to be no trace of an intruder, no hair, no fingerprints, no shoe
prints, no clothing fibers. She must simply vanish. This was the
challenge of a home invasion.

He pulled out a pair of latex gloves, slipped them on both hands, and withdrew a simple credit card from his right back
pocket. How resourceful the plastic could be. Never leave home
without it.

Ten steps later he was crouched on her patio, feeding the
card between the door and the jamb. Within twenty seconds
he was inside her apartment, sliding the door closed again. He
was in and hadn't made a sound doing it. Like he wasn't even
there. He scanned the room. It was the living room, large and
spacious, but sparsely furnished. A small television sat in one
corner, watching quietly like an innocent bystander. A futon
sofa rested against the opposite wall. Other than a brass torch
lamp and wall-to-wall carpet, that was it. No chairs, no pictures.
Nothing that would call the apartment a home.

He took the living room in five steps and entered a short
hall that led to the bathroom on the right and two bedrooms,
one on the left and one on the right, next to the bathroom. The
bedroom door on the right was open and he could see that it
was unfurnished. Not even a lamp. Empty. The bedroom door
on the left was closed. And what lay behind door number one?
Why, dear Cheryl, sleeping soundly, oblivious to the fact that
when she awoke she wouldn't be in Kansas anymore.

Standing in front of the closed door, he placed his hand on
the knob and turned it to the left without so much as a click or
a squeak.

Slowly, silently, he pushed open the door. Another barely
furnished room. Bed, dresser, lamp. The lamp was on, casting
soft yellow light throughout the room. Cheryl was on her
back, blanket twisted around her legs, mouth slightly ajar, one
arm out to the side, the other resting across her stomach. Her
chest rose and fell like the steady rhythm of a ship at sea. A
hardcover-Janet Evanovich's latest-lay open beside her. No
doubt about it, she was asleep.

He approached the bed and stood over her, removing the
white cloth and vial of ether from his pants pocket. She looked
so peaceful, like not a care in the world bothered her. Like
nothing could wake her. For some reason his thoughts went
again to Katie, to the day they put her in the ground. Nothing
would wake her again.

1974

"Aren't you ready yet?" Mother calls from the living room.

He quickly adjusts his tie, smooths his hair, and dashes down
the stairs, skipping two steps at a time. He hates wearing suits,
too stuffy and stiff, and his are all tight across the shoulders
and short in the sleeves. But for Katie, her funeral (a final farewell to love), he'll put up with it.

"It's about time," Mother says, straightening his tie and
smoothing the lapels of his black blazer. "Just look at you. You
still have your breakfast on your face." She licks her thumb and
rubs at the corner of his mouth, leaving behind the smell of
dried saliva and lipstick.

Patting him on the shoulder she says, "Come now, your
father's waiting in the car."

On the drive to the cemetery, he sits in the backseat, head
against the window, and watches the patchwork of fields float
by as if in a dream. (This can't be happening for real, no.) It's
a nice morning, sunny, blue sky. A few large cumulus clouds
float by like parade floats, but a shadow hangs over him, like
a rain cloud that follows him around wherever he goes. Katie
died three days ago, and word has already gotten around town
that it was his fault. Or so they say (and maybe they're right).

He tried to tell the police and the McAfees what really
happened, but it's his word against Bethany's, and who's gonna believe a stupid kid over a teenager, and not just any teenager,
it's Bethany McAfee, the most popular girl in her school.

When they arrive at the cemetery, he holds Mother's hand as
they cross several burial plots to where a large crowd has gathered around a small green tent. As they near, he feels Mother's
hand tighten around his own, and her palm moistens with
sweat. His father places a large hand on the back of his neck
and gently squeezes. They'd heard the talk too (those lies that
might not be far from the truth) and no doubt are feeling the
weighty stares of Katie's family. His stomach tightens.

During the short service, he doesn't hear a single thing the
preacher says. Not that he can't hear; he doesn't want to. His
mind is awash with memories of Katie-her voice when she
said his name, the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the
loose strands of hair she always tucked behind her ears, her
laugh, her lips, the way her lips felt against his (pillows where
angels rest their heads).

When the preacher says all he's going to say, the crowd
begins to disperse. One by one they pay their respects to
Katie's parents and Bethany and return to their cars, shoulders
slumped, wagging their heads from side to side.

When all but a handful of mourners are left, he hears a
woman's strained voice cut through the silence. "Why is he
here?"

He looks up and sees Mrs. McAfee talking to her husband.
He has his arm around her shoulders and is whispering something in her ear.

Then she looks right at him, and he sees the hatred in her
eyes (the devil eyes again). Her stare burns like fire and paralyzes him. He feels Mother tighten her grip on his hand, and
his father pulls him a little closer, but his attention is captured by those eyes, like she's willing him into the grave with her
daughter. (Fine, take me, take me!)